What Once Was Lost (13 page)

“I can’t make promises about what will happen, because I don’t know for sure what the mission board will choose to do. But I promise to try to convince them to rebuild or, at the very least, to allow me to purchase another property where you, Tommy, Herman and Harriet, Alice and her youngsters, Joe and Florie, Cora, Rose, and Louisa can all live together again.” She tugged at his arm until he met her gaze. “Do you believe me?”

Wes turned his head slowly, almost imperceptibly, until his puzzled gaze landed on Christina’s face. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“You gonna live there, too?”

Oh, how Christina wanted to remain with the others! They were her family—without them, she was as useless as a boat without oars. But the men had been adamant about not putting a woman in charge of the poor farm. “I-I don’t know, Wes. I’ll try, all right?”

He heaved a giant-sized sigh. “All right, Miss Willems.” A sad smile quivered at the corners of his lips. “Your pa told me enough times when I was thinkin’ I was too dumb to do something, ‘All a fella can do is pray an’ try.’ I reckon that’s all you can do, too.”

“Pray and try.”
She’d heard the advice so many times. She could still see her father’s tender expression as he’d uttered the words. “Thank you for the reminder, Wes.”

“Well, you ready to go on out?” Wes’s face crunched into a look of abject sympathy. “That cow’s prob’ly ready to burst by now.”

Christina laughed. “Yes, let’s go.”

They rode in silence, but to Christina’s relief it was a companionable
silence, yesterday’s animosity dissolved. Snowflakes, dry and light, wisped from the white-smudged sky and dusted the brown landscape. Despite the cold temperatures, she noted the white maples were beginning to bud—a hopeful sign that winter would soon come to an end.

Wes parked the wagon outside the barn and hopped down. He trotted to the barn without offering Christina a helping hand, but she didn’t mind. The cow needed his attention more than she did. Holding her skirts to the side, she used the wagon wheel as a ladder and then crossed the hard ground to the back of the house.

Each time she glimpsed the blackened walls and sagging roof above what had once been a warm, functional kitchen, her heart ached with regret. The mission representatives had agreed the fire had started in this room, but how? Alone and without distractions, Christina gingerly stepped into the charred shell. She thought back on the last night in the house—the final day. She’d turned in long after the others, determined to bake a sufficient number of loaves of bread to last for a week.

She toed what remained of the firebox, now a splintery pile of ash and blackened slats, recalling how she’d filled the box twice to fuel the stove’s belly. She stared at the iron Majestic stove, at its door hanging from one hinge, and tried to remember if she’d dampened the stove when she’d finally finished the baking. She’d been so tired. What if she’d left the flue open? Or neglected to extinguish every coal before turning in? Her pulse began to pound, her head throbbing as she forced herself to think, think … She was the last one in the kitchen. Had she done something foolish and caused the fire?

She’d intended to draw rough images of the damage and to formulate a plan for rebuilding to prove to the mission board she possessed the ability to bring the poor farm back into operation. But if she was to blame for the fire, how could anyone—including herself—see her as capable of handling such a large responsibility?

Chapter 13

Tommy held tight to Joe’s hand and allowed the younger boy to lead him to church for Sunday morning service. The Tatums’ house was close to the church building—only eighty-seven paces. Tommy counted each one, trying to lift his feet rather than scuff, the way Mr. Jonnson had said a man walked.

Tommy’s toe bumped against something solid, and he started to pitch forward.

Joe grabbed his arm with both hands. “Careful! You almost pulled me over.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right. Reckon you couldn’t see the steps.” Taking Tommy’s elbow, Joe said, “Gotta go up. Up. Up. Up. One more …”

Eyes closed, hand outstretched, Tommy took five steps across what seemed to be a porch. He paused while a knob turned and hinges moaned. Then two more forward steps, after which a door clicked closed, and the wind wasn’t pushing against his back anymore. They were inside.

“We’re s’posed to sit down front,” Joe said. He took Tommy’s hand and started moving.

Their footsteps on the wooden floorboards echoed in the building. Tommy shivered even though the room was toasty warm. How he hated not knowing if people were sitting on the benches, watching him being herded along like a dog on a leash. He whispered, “Is anybody else in here?”

“Not yet.” Joe spoke out loud, his voice bouncing off the walls and returning. “Just you an’ me. Mrs. Tatum wanted us to get settled before people started comin’ in. Not sure why.”

Tommy knew why. The woman was shamed by him. She hadn’t come
right out and said, “Tommy, I’m ashamed to be seen with you,” but her actions let him know. If people came to the door, she shuffled him out of the room before letting them in. He had to eat in the kitchen instead of at the dining room table with the others. He didn’t even have a bed—just a pile of blankets on the floor in the room Joe and Florie shared. Oh, she talked nice to him. Real nice. Too nice. The way people did when they pretended to like you. But he knew. Tommy hated it at the Tatums’ house.

“Here you go.” Joe’s hands grabbed Tommy’s shoulders and gave a little push. Tommy flopped backward, and his bottom connected with a hard bench. The bench squeaked—Joe settling in beside him—and then silence except for a
tick, tick, tick
from over his head, somewhere on the right.

Tick, tick, tick
counting off the minutes.

Tick, tick, tick
counting off the useless days of Tommy’s life.

Since the day the boiler had exploded in his face and he woke up in a world of darkness, the only time he’d felt useful was those few days at Mr. Jonnson’s. Out there he’d wiped his own nose. Buttoned his own clothes. Washed his own dishes. And he would’ve learned to cane, too, if Miss Willems had left him there. He asked Mrs. Tatum every day for rope or string so he could practice, but she always said no. He’d never learn it if he couldn’t go back to Mr. Jonnson’s.

Tick, tick, tick …

Hinges squeaked. Cold air blew into the room. Footsteps sounded. Joe bumped Tommy’s arm. “People’s comin’ in. Service’ll be startin’ soon, I guess.”

Tommy stared ahead into the nothing world and set his jaw in a stubborn jut. When the service was over, he’d have Joe take him to Miss Willems. He’d tell her straight out how he wanted to go to Mr. Jonnson’s again. And if she wouldn’t listen, he’d find a way to get there himself.

Christina glanced at the pendulum clock. Ten ’til noon. The service was nearing its end. Lying in bed last night, unable to sleep, she’d decided she must
unburden herself to someone. The reverend seemed the logical choice. Although she didn’t know Reverend Huntley well—Father had always conducted their own services at the poor farm, and she’d taken over the task when he passed away—she felt certain a minister would be willing to listen, counsel, and hold in confidence anything she shared.

Just as they had at the close of last week’s service, each of the poor farm residents made their way to her bench and greeted her the moment the final prayer ended. Joe pressed Tommy to the center of the group, and Christina cupped his cheeks and gave him a quick perusal. Neatly combed hair, clean clothes with his shirt tucked into his britches, shoestrings tied into perfect bows. Oh yes, the Tatums were taking excellent care of Tommy.

She leaned forward and planted a kiss on his forehead. “I’m so glad you’re here with all of us today.”

He curled his hands around her wrists. “Miss Willems, I gotta talk to you about—”

Christina spotted Reverend Huntley striding down the aisle. She gently extracted herself from Tommy’s grasp. “Just a moment, Tommy.” But the man moved past her before she could capture his attention. She sighed.

He pawed at her arm. “Miss Willems, I—”

Florie darted forward and threw her arms around Christina’s waist. “Miz Tatum says she can’t have ever’body over today ’cause she invited the Huntleys an’ the Spencers. She says she’ll ask you all to come some other time.”

Disappointed murmurs circled the group, and Christina bit back her own expression of dismay. If the reverend and his wife were supping with the Tatums, he wouldn’t have time to meet with her today. But perhaps he’d make time for her tomorrow, were she to ask.

“Miss Willems?” Tommy sounded fretful.

She gave his shoulder a soothing pat. “I need to speak to someone, Tommy. Please excuse me.” She passed Florie to Rose and scurried after the minister. “Reverend Huntley? Reverend, wait, please.”

The man stopped at the base of the steps. The wind ruffled his hair and
lifted the collar on his coat. He gave the wool fabric a quick flick, then ran his hand over his head. “Yes, Miss Willems?”

She clattered down the steps and stood beside him. The sun sent a shaft of light into her eyes, forcing her to squint, but the yellow orb did little to warm the day. She gestured toward the church. “Could we step inside? I’d like to speak with you.”

Reverend Huntley grimaced. “I apologize, Miss Willems, but my wife gave me strict instructions not to dally today. We’re joining the Tatums to welcome the newest family to town, and she said if I delay, the chicken Mrs. Tatum is roasting might be shriveled to an inedible crisp.”

Christina wrung her hands together. “Then I won’t keep you.” She backed up onto the first step. “I’ll try to speak with you another time.”

The reverend inched toward the house next to the church. “I could meet you this afternoon. Four o’clock?”

Christina fingered Papa’s watch, thinking. If she started supper preparations early, she should be able to meet at that time. “I’ll come back then. Thank you.”

As he hurried off, Mrs. Tatum stepped to Christina’s side. “Miss Willems, I hate to intrude on your time with the children, but we have guests coming. Would you please send them on to the house? I would appreciate Florie’s help setting the table.”

“Of course.” Christina returned to the church, where the poor farm residents were donning their coats. She helped Tommy with his buttons, then said, “You children hurry on home now. Mrs. Tatum is waiting for you.”

Joe took Tommy’s hand and pulled, but Tommy yanked free. “Miss Willems, I gotta talk to you about something!”

Christina hated to ignore the boy, but Mrs. Tatum had specifically asked her to send the youngsters immediately. She gave Tommy a gentle nudge toward Joe. “You go on now. Don’t keep Mrs. Tatum waiting.”

“C’mon, Tommy!” Joe grabbed Tommy’s hand again, and this time he
allowed Joe to lead him out. However, he scuffed along, his head low. The boy’s dejected pose pricked Christina’s conscience. Perhaps she should go after him and see what he needed.

Cora handed Christina her coat. “Think maybe Miz Beasley’ll let us slice that leftover beef tongue for sandwiches? There’s not enough of it left to do much else.”

Christina jolted. She needed to hurry to the boardinghouse and get as much done as possible for the boarders’ evening meal if she wanted to carve out time to meet with Reverend Huntley at four o’clock. Slipping into her coat, she decided she could go see Tommy after she spoke with the minister. Surely whatever the boy needed could wait that long.

She smiled at Cora. “We can ask. Let’s go.”

Reverend Huntley escorted Christina into a small, cramped room lined with overflowing bookshelves in the back corner of his house. Only one window looked out over the side yard, and the tall church building blocked sunshine from entering the room, but a pair of iron wall sconces held oil lamps. Their warm glow brightened the tiny space. He gestured to an armless, diminutive parlor chair on one side of a desk, which filled the center of the room, and he slid into a massive wooden chair on the other side.

“Now then.” He aimed a smile in her direction. “How are plans to rebuild progressing?”